


Inconsistencies

by neverthelessthesun



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Assisted Suicide, Canon-Typical Violence, Deaf Clint Barton, Death, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Happy Ending, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I promise, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Multi, Natasha-centric, Nobody actually dies we just talk about it a lot, One Shot, Polyamory, SHIELD, Sharing a Bed, Suicidal Thoughts, as fluffy as a story about assassination can be, coulson has PTSD, they all have PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 16:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10768353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverthelessthesun/pseuds/neverthelessthesun
Summary: When SHIELD sent Agent Barton to kill her, he brought a gun. Natasha still dreams about it.





	Inconsistencies

**Author's Note:**

> listen I have been craving some OT3 realness and instead of mooching off what's already there I decided to contribute.  
> ***WARNING*** This story contains graphic and repeated depictions of murder/assisted suicide between major characters. If that may be triggering for you, move along friend. I've moved the rating to Mature just because of the nightmare juice, ok?

When SHIELD sent Agent Barton to kill her, he brought a gun. It was this small inconsistency on which her life rested—for, if he had not been aiming a gun at her, if he had been outfitted with his usual recurve bow, she would likely as not be dead. 

You see, the metal gun glinted in the Italian sunlight, and it caught her eye. 

And when she saw the gun, she knew she was going to die, and for one moment she let her composure fall, and Agent Barton saw how fucking _relieved_ she was. 

Later, Clint would be kinder than this. He wouldn’t say “suicidal” or “broken” or any of that. Instead, he said, “You looked like I felt before. I saw me in you, a little bit.”

Natasha still dreams about that gun, about the glint of metal in hot sun, about the blood that covered her arms and the smell of death about her. She dreams that the gunman, faceless to her then, fires, and the world goes blissfully black. 

.o0o.

Saturday morning, Clint knocked on her door and shoved a plate of hotcakes under her nose when she opened it. A peace offering, for waking her up on a weekend. She accepted the plate but continued to eye him like she was considering eating him for breakfast, too. 

He didn’t seem to notice her surly attitude. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, flitting around her quarters like a hummingbird, signing _morning_ and _food_ and _i love you_ in rapid succession. She never got tired of that last one.

Natasha ate her pancakes one-handed and chugged coffee between bites. Clint’s energy meant he had something planned, and if she wanted to watch him pull it off she had better be dressed in ten minutes. 

“I was thinking of going to the city for a day,” He finally mumbled when she was half done. “Just, to, you know, pretend to be tourists. Take in the views.”

She raised an eyebrow at him and swallowed her bite of pancakes. Without saying a word, she pointedly took another bite.

“No, Coulson thinks it’s a great idea!” Clint insisted. The other eyebrow went up. “Or he will, when I ask him.” 

Natasha chewed and swallowed. Gulped two mouthfuls of coffee.

“Okay, fine! I’ll ask him BEFORE we go this time.”

She finished the pancakes and set the plate on his head, then went to find good walking shoes. No one could make her take on New York in heels on her day off. 

.o0o.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Coulson said, which, how was this man still able to surprise her? Natasha never knew how to predict him, except where it counted. She always knew he would have her back.

 _Told you_ , Clint threw at her over his shoulder. She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at the back of his head.

“In fact, I think I’ll join you,” Coulson continued, surprising her yet again. Coulson taking a Saturday off was a real treat. Of course, he was probably doing the director a favor, keeping an eye on the two of them. 

Natasha nevertheless believed in positive enforcement, and beamed at Coulson over Clint’s shoulder. His lips upturned softly in return. 

Man, she was in deep.

.o0o.

Natasha still dreams about that hot day in Venice, and sometimes Clint does bring his bow, and instead of a gun there’s an arrow pointed at her and she doesn’t see him and she is shot through the skull before she has a second to be relieved.

.o0o.

The Statue of Liberty was ridiculously crowded for early April, even though it was a gorgeous day. They took a turn on the Ellis Island Ferry, saw Times Square (which Clint had somehow never seen) and ended up at a small deli on 5th Street that sold killer pastrami. Clint kept up a steady stream of banter with both of them, engaging and snarky. Coulson kept catching her sweeping the area for threats, nodding at the occasional sketchy individual as if to say, I see it too, then scanning whatever direction she wasn’t looking. Natasha herself mostly chatted with Clint until her and Coulson got into an argument in French about which dog they had seen was the cutest. It was a perfect day. 

.o0o.

Natasha still dreams about that day. Sometimes it’s Phil behind the gun, instead of Clint, and he shoots. Sometimes she looks down the barrel at herself, and pulls the trigger. 

.o0o.

“You know,” Natasha murmured, “For the longest time after starting SHIELD, I told myself it was a job.” It was evening, the brightest stars were visible out Phil’s bedroom window, and the three of them were wrapped in each other and the sheets. “I didn’t let myself get attached.”

“What changed your mind?” Phil asked, smoothing his hand over her hair. 

“Georgia, three years ago. Both of you got shot, and Clint checked himself out AMA to crash in a hospital chair in your room and wait for you to wake up. When you did, finally, you yelled at him for going AMA and got so worked up, the doctor had to come in and put you back to sleep.”

They all shared a chuckle. 

“Well, I saw how you cared for each other, and then I saw that the first thing you both did after checking the other was to check on me, and I thought, ‘this isn’t so bad.’ And here I am.”

“Yes,” Clint kissed her nose. “Here you are.”

.o0o.

Sometimes Natasha dreams of the future, of how she will die. She dreams of a recurve bow and Clint’s solemn, grey-green eyes and Coulson’s voice in his ear telling him to take the shot. She raises both arms to shoulder height, palms up. “Here I am,” she tells him. He takes the shot.

.o0o.

They fell asleep like that, tangled in each other. Clint woke first and crawled into the ceiling vent, where he was closed in, where he felt safe. Coulson woke second and stretched out on the floor, bad knee and all, because the bed was too comfortable. So Natasha woke from her dream alone, and listened for their breathing for an hour before she was calm enough to try to sleep again. 

.o0o.

Sometimes, Natasha dreams that they grow old together and that Fury has to take them off rotation when they’re in their seventies because none of them will quit until they’re made to. She dreams of tea on the porch at sunset and Clint’s hand on her shoulder and Phil’s once-a-year smile, and of happiness. These are the only dreams she wakes crying from.

.o0o.

But even though they all have nightmares, even though they don’t get many days off, the time they spend awake and with each other makes the bad days worth it. And even on the bad days, Natasha looks at Phil’s not-smile and Clint’s crow’s feet and is so, _so_ glad to be alive.


End file.
